Diamond in the Rough
by Coca-Cola3012
Summary: Dallas Winston wakes up from a coma, realizing to his disappointment that he wasn't actually shot the night Johnny died. A strange man comes calling...
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One: The Awakening

Dallas Winston smelled lemon. The odor was strong and pungent, and he was sure it was some kind of disinfectant. He struggled to open his eyes. They felt so heavy…

Footsteps. Someone laid a cool hand on his forehead. "His fever's broken," she announced. "His swelling's gone down too."

Fever? Swelling? Dally didn't remember being sick. He struggled, but the cool hand gently restrained him. "Dallas?" the woman asked. "Are you awake? Can you answer me?"

"Ye-yes," Dallas croaked. His throat was dry. Jesus, what he wouldn't give for a Pepsi. He tried forcing his eyes open again. It felt like there were weights on his eyelids, and like someone was sitting on his chest.

The woman put a glass to his lips. He opened his mouth and swallowed greedily, hoping for Pepsi. It was just water, but he drank it anyway. He didn't think he'd ever been this thirsty.

He hadn't realized it until now, but he couldn't really feel the rest of his body. There were pricking sensations in his arms, and he attempted to flex his fingers.

_A little at a time,_ he told himself. _First the eyes._

When he managed to pry his eyes open, the woman was gone and a dark-haired doctor was standing in front of him.

"Glad to have you back, Dallas," he said.

Dallas realized with a jolt it was the same doctor who had treated him after the burning house.

His heart dropped. The burning house. Johnny. Johnny dead. Johnny gone forever. And him…he had gotten shot by the police. But he wasn't dead.

At least he didn't think so. He had never pictured Hell as looking like Tulsa General Hospital.

"What happened?" Dallas demanded. He was still thirsty. And hungry.

"You were shot by the Tulsa police approximately one week ago," the doctor began.

"I know. I was there for that part," Dallas said acidly. "I _meant_ what happened after that?"

"You had an allergic reaction," the doctor said matter-of-factly. "You were brought here and we gave you antihistamines, but you slipped into a coma. You're incredibly lucky you woke up." He paused. "We were unable to get in contact with your mother—"

"Screw that," Dallas scoffed. "She doesn't care. What I want to know is, allergic reaction to what? The bullets?"

"The tranquilizers."

"What tranquilizers?" Dallas demanded, nonplussed. "Those bastards _shot_ me!"

"With tranquilizers," the doctor said calmly.

"I heard the damn gunshots!" Dallas was shouting now.

The doctor shrugged. "I don't know anything about that. But you're cured, and once we determine you're stable, we can discharge you."

He left the room before Dallas could say anything else.

Dallas exhaled angrily, like a bull. Stable, his foot. He was leaving immediately. He swung his legs out of bed and realized he was wearing a hospital gown.

"Hey!" he yelled. When no one responded, he shouted again, "Hey!"

A nurse entered, cocking an eyebrow. "I see you're awake."

"Where are my clothes?" Dallas demanded, ignoring the statement.

The nurse ordered him back into bed. "Not until Doctor Freeman determines you're stable."

Another nurse stuck her head into the room. "Dallas has a visitor."

The first nurse looked at Dallas. Dally nodded, figuring it was Darry or Two-Bit.

Instead, a strange man entered the room. "Who the hell are you?" Dallas demanded.

The man gave him a tight smile. "Your new stepfather."

Dallas didn't believe for one moment this man had married his mother. For one thing, his mother was too much of a bitch for a smart guy—at least, smart enough to know how to con the nurses—like him to fall for her.

For another, he wasn't white. He was most likely Indian judging by his accent, his skin mahogany and his black hair slicked back. His arms and legs were slim, and his hands almost delicate, but his middle billowed out in a generous potbelly.

For another, he was way too rich. His shoes were leather, and his coat looked like it was made out of soft, lush wool. A gold watch glinted on his left wrist and his beard was trimmed too neatly for him to have done it himself. You couldn't trim your own sideburns like that without breaking your neck.

Dallas was immediately intrigued. "Oh," he said casually, playing along. "She told me about you."

"Your stepfather's been in to see you every day," the first nurse said, giving Dally the evil eye. "You ought to respect him more."

"And you ought to be making me a sandwich. Leave us alone, would ya, babe?" Dallas said, leering at the nurse.

The nurse rolled her eyes and walked out. As soon as she was out of earshot, Dallas said, "So. Every day, huh?"

"Yes," the man replied calmly. "I apologize for your hospitalization. Of course, I will take care of the bill."

Dallas raised an eyebrow. "What're you apologizing for? The police shot me."

The man scratched his chin, making a sandpapery sound. "Well," he said. "If it hadn't been for me, they would have shot you full of bullets."

Dallas frowned in confusion. Who exactly was he dealing with here? "So…you paid them off or something?" he said slowly.

"Yes," the man said. "You're quick."

Dallas didn't like the way the man was looking at him. It was an appraising look. The way someone might look at a racehorse they were considering buying. He clenched his teeth. "Why would you pay the police to keep me alive?" he demanded.

"Because," the man said, giving him a brief smile. "I need to hire someone for a very specific job. And I needed someone with nothing to lose. Someone resilient, skilled at fighting. The Tulsa police were, ah, most easily persuaded to give me a recommendation," the man smirked.

_I bet they were,_ Dallas thought. _I bet they were real eager to throw me under the bus and take the tidy sum you promised them._

"They said it was only a matter of time before a wild card like you found himself under police fire. They promised me when this happened, you would be turned over to me."

Dallas glowered. "I don't suppose I get any say in this?" he growled.

"You do," the man said. "If you don't want to come with me and do a great service for my country, all I have to do is give my word to the Tulsa police, and they'll shoot you again. For real this time."

The man mopped his brow with a silk handkerchief. He seemed to be waiting for a response. When Dallas didn't say anything, he prompted him. "Well? What do you say?"

Dallas' mind reeled. He was supposed to be dead…but he was being recruited? For what country? India? Why the hell would he want to go to godforsaken India?

He should be dead by now. He was supposed to be dead, like Johnny. Johnny should be alive and here in the hospital just waking up, not him.

He couldn't do this. All he wanted to do was sleep. Sleep forever, and wake up and see Johnny again.

The man must have seen the hesitation on his face, because he said, "I can see this is all a bit much. I'll be back tomorrow. Sleep on it," he said, his voice taking on a semblance of kindness for the first time.

He turned on his heel and walked out briskly.

Dallas sank back in the bed. He groaned inwardly. This was a fine mess he was in. Maybe it was all a nightmare. Maybe it was the final hallucinations of a dying man…that had to be it. Because nothing else made sense.

He tried to sleep. He realized, long after the man was gone, that he had forgotten to ask if anyone else knew he wasn't actually dead.

000000000

Reviews are welcomed, please and thank you!


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two: The Sequestering

K.P. Nagra gave the nurses a cordial nod as he exited Dallas Winston's hospital room. He hailed a cab and returned to his hotel.

In his room, he cursed inwardly as he realized that even that short sojourn to the hospital and back—no more than an hour total—had resulted in his trousers and his shoes becoming covered with a fine layer of gritty dust. He couldn't wait to be back in Mumbai. Was the whole of this country so dusty and dry?

He patted his pockets until he found the number he was looking for. He dialed from the phone in his room. None of the other rooms had phones, but Nagra had placed a special request. Given his status and the, ah, diplomatic nature of his affairs, he would need a private phone, he had explained to the hotel manager.

"Balram," he barked as soon as someone answered.

"Yes, _sahib?"_ his assistant replied, addressing him with an Indian formality.

"Winston is hedging. I want him on my plane by the time we take off tomorrow morning."

"Of course, sir," Balram murmured. His soft voice belied his strength. Balram was from one of the many poverty-ridden farming villages scattered throughout the state of Uttar Pradesh in India. Nagra had met Balram during one of his "rural outreach" trips, month-long journeys Nagra took during election years.

Nagra drove from village to village, staying no more than a few hours in each place, giving speeches and promising to allocate more government resources to the villager population of India. It had proven to be one of Nagra's better political strategies, earning him a significant number of votes.

Nagra's first glimpse of the boy was when he was giving his "importance of agriculture" speech, standing on the steps of a worn Hindu temple with the entirety of the village watching him with blank stares. They were simpletons mostly, and Nagra knew these speeches were lost on these villagers, but he gave them anyway for the sake of appearances.

The boy, about twelve years old, had pushed his way to the front of the crowd and watched Nagra intently. Now, this boy was no simpleton, Nagra had known immediately. He was dark-skinned and impossibly thin, dressed in white shorts and a man's undershirt with his hair combed to the side with care. And despite his youth, his face was drenched with a luminescence Nagra had never seen before.

He found himself directing his speech at this boy. And when he was finished speaking, he had gone and talked to the boy's parents immediately about hiring him to work as a servant in his Mumbai house.

"My chauffeur is old and infirm," he had said by way of explanation. "I will need a replacement soon. And your son seems like an intelligent boy."

His parents were bewildered, but they knew an opportunity to work in a city like Mumbai was the only way up in life. They agreed immediately.

Nagra arranged to have the boy picked up and brought to Mumbai by the time his trip was over. Upon meeting the boy again, he had asked, "What is your name, son?"

"Munna," the boy had responded.

"That won't do," Nagra said. "Munna can't be your name." _Munna_ just meant "boy."

"Never had another name," Munna said, shifting nervously.

Nagra thought for a moment. "How about the name Balram? Does that sound good to you?"

Eager to please, the boy had nodded vigorously.

"Good. Do you know what Balram means?" Nagra had asked with a smile, pleased at his own cleverness. When the boy shook his head, Nagra explained, "In Hindu mythology, Balram is the sidekick of Lord Krishna. Do you know what my first name is?"

"What, sir?"

"Krishna."

Balram was trained in the finest schools of Mumbai to be not only Nagra's chauffeur, but also his bodyguard. Nagra had ensured Balram finish at least high school, all the while paying for secondary lessons in strength and endurance training, weapons use, self-defense, martial arts, diplomacy and espionage.

That had been ten years ago. Balram had proved invaluable to Nagra, as a bodyguard, a spy and a personal assistant. His loyalty to Nagra was undying, as Nagra had seen multiple times. Balram had performed hits on his enemies, had allowed the police to arrest him for a hit-and-run Nagra had committed while drunk, and had never so much as asked for a raise.

But now, Nagra had finally asked him for something he could not do. At least, not alone.

So for the first time in ten years, Balram had asked Nagra for a favor. He had asked for a partner.

And that was why Nagra had come to America, to see if he could pick up someone with as much potential as Balram.

There wasn't enough time to train someone from scratch like he had Balram. And anyway, Nagra knew he was extraordinarily lucky to find someone like Balram, who would never backstab him.

And that was exactly why an Indian boy simply would not do. An Indian boy, especially one who was already skilled in fighting and surviving—in other words, the kind of boy Nagra needed—would have his own agenda and his own ideas. No, Nagra needed a tough young man with nothing to lose and absolutely no stake in what would happen in India.

Which is why Nagra had come looking for an American gangster. And now that he had found Dallas Winston, there was no way he was going to let him go.

000000000

Balram adjusted his hat in the mirror. He wished he could keep it; it made him look clean-cut.

The hat, and the rest of the dark blue uniform, was a loan from the Tulsa Police Department. Given that Nagra was both paying them generously and taking Dallas off their hands, they had been more than happy to help.

It had been reported in today's newspaper that Dallas had died as a result of police fire. The doctors and nurses, like the police department, had similarly been paid off to keep quiet about the whole affair.

Nagra hadn't been happy about having to pay off the medical staff as well. "If that bloody American hadn't had an allergic reaction, we could have been back in Mumbai by now!" he had groused.

Truthfully, the doctor had put up a bit of a fuss about the ethics of the situation, but he had quickly quieted down when Balram pulled out his revolver and told the doctor in no uncertain terms how this could turn out for him. But no use worrying Nagra with the details.

Now, Balram walked briskly through the hospital, not bothering to knock before entering Dallas Winston's hospital room.

Dallas was awake. He looked startled to see a police officer in his room.

"I'm Officer Jake Wilson. Mr. Nagra, your…stepfather asked me to come see you. Have you made your decision?" Balram said, hoping he sounded convincing. He had been practicing his American accent.

It seemed to work. Dallas clenched his jaw. "Yeah. I ain't doing nothing for my fake stepfather, or anyone else. I guess you're the fuzz come to shoot me for not joining that Arab's coke ring or whatever the hell it is he has going. So go ahead and shoot me, you damn pig," he finished with venom in his voice.

Nagra had been right. Winston had no desire to turn over his life, the idiot. Balram was nonplussed at the stupidity of this American. When someone as powerful as Nagra offered you a new life, you took it. Look at what had happened to Balram. He had been destined for a life of cow herding and marrying some empty-headed village girl with a shrill voice before he met Nagra.

Which was why Balram would take particular pleasure from this. Winston was allergic to sedatives, so he would have to do this the old-fashioned way. It would certainly be messier, but Balram would enjoy teaching this imbecile a lesson.

He stepped forward, pretending to reach for his revolver. "All right, Mr. Winston. Might as well get it over with."

Dallas shrank back. "What, here?" he said, aghast.

Balram snorted with impatience. "The first thing they'll do anyway is bring you to the hospital to have you declared dead. Why not spare the extra trouble?"

000000000

Dallas hesitated. This was a lot more sudden than he had expected. But then again, he didn't know what he had expected. A firing squad in front of a brick wall like in the movies?

He exhaled sharply and then sat up in bed. "Okay," he said. "Do it."

Only a few more moments. Then it would all be over. The unfairness of this world, the injustice of Johnny's death. Dallas had never believed in all that church crap, but he hoped for Johnny's sake there was a heaven, because after all he had been through, there was no one who deserved it more.

Dallas had to stop himself from yelling, "Just do it already!" He gripped the sides of the bed, his whole body beginning to tremble. This was what he wanted, it was all he wanted, and all he wanted was for it to be over now. He almost closed his eyes, unsure if he even wanted to see it happen anymore. He only hoped that this time it would be for real, that it wouldn't be a cruel joke again.

But it was a good thing he didn't close his eyes. Because the next thing he knew, Officer Wilson's dark fist was speeding towards him.

The fist connected with the bridge of his nose, making his head snap back. Before he could react, another fist slammed into his diaphragm, knocking the breath out of him.

Dallas roared and jumped up. He swung at Wilson, and the way it caught the young officer in the chest told Dallas he hadn't been expecting Dallas to fight back.

"Just shoot me already!" Dallas bellowed. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

He dodged the next punch to his side, but realized a split second too late this had just been a ploy to get him off balance. The officer took advantage of his temporary imbalance to grab him and slam his head against the wall, once, twice, three times.

Dallas staggered forward, ready to fight, but he hadn't been out of bed for a week. His leg muscles were weak, and to his chagrin, he practically fell into Wilson's arms, giving Wilson the perfect opportunity to land a punch between Dallas' eyes, knocking him out completely.

000000000


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three: Selfish

Dallas came to eventually. "Urghhh…" he groaned, unable to stop the sound from escaping his lips.

His head began throbbing as soon as he tried to sit up, the blood rushing to his face. He felt nauseous and was sure he was going to throw up.

_This is like the worst hangover ever,_ he thought grimly, lying back down in an effort to stop the bile from rising in his throat.

He couldn't seem to move his arms or legs. He wondered if he had gone into another coma when that policeman, or whoever the hell he was, had punched him. That had been embarrassing. He hadn't gone down that easily in a fight for years.

_Well, I did just wake up from a coma,_ he thought, trying to reassure himself.

As his vision cleared, he realized that he couldn't move because he was tied down. He strained against the ropes, searching for a weak point, but no such luck. He looked down at himself and swore inwardly. Still wearing that damn hospital gown.

There was a roaring noise in his ears. He figured it was the blood rushing all at once to his head, but once he was fully awake, he realized that the noise wasn't his ears buzzing. It was an engine. He was in a moving vehicle, and he didn't know how he had gotten into it or where he was going.

His body shot upright, trying frantically to get free of the ropes. He had to get out of here. He struggled for a good two minutes before he was exhausted and had to slump back again, breathing heavily. A full week in a coma had weakened his muscles more than he had realized, and getting knocked out only a day after waking up again hadn't helped much either.

His mind raced. How was he going to get out of this? Would he have to join whatever mission that Indian man had been telling him about? And why were they kidnapping him anyway? Forcing him to do the mission just made it more likely that Dallas would fail out of spite.

He was well aware that if he failed, they would kill him. He had seen enough spy movies to know that. And that was exactly what he was counting on. He had run into police fire that night drunkenly, it was true, but now that he was sober, he found that he still felt the same way. All he wanted to do was die, and the world seemed to be conspiring, for once, to keep him alive.

It had to be some kind of sick joke. He sighed inwardly. Maybe it was his mind hallucinating or dreaming as he died, to take him out of the moment, or something.

Heaviness settled on his limbs as he remembered again. Johnny. That night in the church…those last nights he had seen Johnny alive, afraid for his life as he hid in that godforsaken church.

Dallas should have just taken the heat for that murder himself. He didn't know why it hadn't occurred to him at the time. It would have made sense. The cops certainly would have bought it. Dallas Winston, meanest JD in Tulsa. Of course he would murder a Soc.

If Dallas had confessed to the crime, no one would have thought to implicate Johnny or Ponyboy. Why bother, when Dallas was confessing to the crime?

And probably none of the Socs would have minded either. They were too drunk that night to know which greaser did what. And besides, as long as someone paid for it, what was one less greaser?

Dallas should have taken the blame for that. He didn't know why he didn't.

Except that he did, didn't he. It was because he was selfish. It was because, despite how much he had loved Johnny and how much he considered him a kid brother, despite how much Johnny looked up to Dallas and wanted to be like him, and counted on him, the fact was that Dallas had been too concerned with his own sorry ass to do that for Johnny. And he would never forgive himself for that.

He shut his eyes. Why couldn't those have been real bullets? Why couldn't he have just died that night? This was the last thing he wanted, to have to live through this. To have to live without Johnny, and most of all, to have to face himself every day.

So yes, he would fail this mission. Or he would just refuse to do it. So far, after refusing them, they had beaten him, kidnapped him and tied him up. Maybe they would torture him, or try and force him to do what they wanted.

Dallas didn't care. All he wanted was for this to end. He didn't care what he had to go through to get there. Sooner or later, they would realize it was useless. And then they would kill him. They would have to.

Eventually, a door somewhere behind Dallas opened. Dallas twisted in his seat to see who it was.

It was the officer who had beaten him earlier. He gave Dallas a grim smile.

"You're awake, I see," he said. "Let's talk."

000000000

Darry walked into the living room and found Ponyboy with his face buried in the daily newspaper. Darry caught sight of the headline and groaned inwardly.

"Memorial Service Held for Johnny Cade and Dallas Winston at Tulsa Community Center."

It was a full-length, detailed memorial story about Johnny and Dallas, how they were two kids from the wrong side of the tracks who died heroes' deaths. Darry had read it earlier, and wished he had thought to throw it away.

He gently pried it out of Ponyboy's hands. He saw that his younger brother had been crying again, and Darry led his brother to the kitchen. "I'll cook you some spaghetti," he said in as soothing a voice as he could muster.

Darry was going through the same motions he had when their parents had just died. Keeping upsetting things away from his brothers, making sure they ate, slept and bathed, and waking up in the middle of the night for Ponyboy's nightmares.

Only this time his own pain felt different. It wasn't sharp and fresh, the way it had been when their parents died. This time, it was blunt and inevitable. He didn't know whether that was because he had become accustomed to living with grief, or if he just knew it was bound to happen at some time. Johnny, the most vulnerable and fragile, and Dallas, the meanest and most reckless. Of course they were the first to die. He had just never expected it to be this way.

He swallowed hard and stroked Ponyboy's hair absent-mindedly. It was growing in already, the soft red a sharp contrast from the brittle yellow Ponyboy's hair had turned after Johnny bleached it.

They would get through this, he knew. Somehow.

000000000

Review, please!


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four: Koh-I-What?

The officer who had beaten Dallas unconscious stepped into the room. Dallas growled, his muscles tensing. The man smirked slightly.

"Glad to see you're awake," he said. His accent, Dallas was shocked to hear, wasn't American. It was Indian, like his fake stepfather's, albeit harsher and coarser.

"What do you people want from me?" Dallas snarled. "I already told you I'm not doing this. Kill me if you want. I don't care."

The officer stood directly in front of Dallas. "I'm afraid that's not going to happen."

Dallas scoffed. "So, what, you're going to try and convince me this mission is important for your country or something? Why can't you get one of your own damn people to do this, huh?"

In response, the officer pulled a switchblade from his pocket and flipped it open. Dallas' stomach flipped and his heart began to race. Were they going to torture him?

The Tulsa police weren't above beating confessions out of greasers, and they had never broken Dallas before. Still, it didn't make the prospect any more appealing.

To his astonishment, the officer didn't threaten or attack Dallas. Instead, he leaned over, and before Dallas had time to react, he neatly sliced through the ropes that bound Dallas and let them fall to the floor.

Dallas looked up at the officer, unable to hide his shock. Wasn't he afraid Dallas was going to jump him at the first available opportunity?

"I know you're not going to do anything," the man said as if reading Dallas' mind. "By now I've piqued your curiosity." He paused, giving Dallas an appraising look. "And even if I haven't you know you're still too weak to get past me."

Dallas knew he was right. His mouth twisted into a sour expression, and the officer smiled broadly. His teeth were unnervingly white against his dark skin.

"So," the man said. "Let me start at the beginning. You are going to work with me to recover the Koh-I-Noor from Britain."

"The Koh-I-what?" Dallas spluttered. "Good luck with that, pal."

"The Koh-I-Noor was once the largest diamond in the world. It is widely regarded as the most beautiful diamond in the world," the man continued patiently. "It was stolen from India during British colonization, and it is currently in the Tower of London. It is going to be our mission—yours and mine—to recover it."

Dallas struggled to keep his temper. "You still haven't explained to me why _I_ have to be the sucker who does this."

"Because," the officer said simply. "You have no personal stake in the diamond because you're American. And you're the perfect candidate because you have nothing left to lose."

"You don't know what the—" Dallas let fly with a series of curse words. "—You're talking about! I have plenty to lose, thank you very much, you—!" Another string of curses that would have made even Tim Shepard raise an eyebrow.

"If you have so much to lose, then why did you walk straight into police fire, and why have you repeatedly expressed your desire to die?" the man challenged.

Dallas had no answer for that.

The man nodded slightly as if in approval, although for what Dallas had no idea. An expression of satisfaction was apparent in his face when he said, "Get some rest. We are on Mr. Nagra's private jet. We will be arriving in Mumbai soon."

He strode abruptly out of the room, ignoring Dallas, who had leapt up and began cursing before he had finished his sentence.

Dallas attempted to follow him out of the room, still cursing a blue streak, but the man gave him a gentle push and Dallas staggered backwards, still too weak to fight back properly.

"Get some rest," the officer commanded before snapping the door shut. Dallas heard a click and groaned inwardly. He was locked in. He banged a few times on the door, knowing it was futile.

"You can't keep me in here!" he yelled. "You can't do this!"

No one was going to respond. He exhaled loudly and slumped against the door.

_What am I going to do?_ he wondered miserably.

000000000

"No cooperation yet, sir," Balram said crisply, stepping into Nagra's office.

Nagra barely glanced up from his newspaper. "Give him the gas," he said.

Balram hesitated, but then turned to obey his employer's orders. The hesitation was not lost on Nagra, however.

"Yes, Balram?" he said, looking at his bodyguard.

"Sir," Balram said slowly. "It might be a bit soon for that. He did seem doubtful when I told him we chose him because he has nothing left."

"I need you to coerce him quickly, Balram, not talk philosophy with him," Nagra said sharply.

Balram cast his eyes to the ground and nodded. "Right away, sir," he said. He left the office and entered a small closet with a series of levers and switches on the wall. He switched open a number of them and returned to Nagra's office.

000000000

Dallas sat tensely on the couch he had been tied to, tapping his foot nervously. They hadn't even given him shoes. What, did they think he was going to run away? On a moving plane?

In his frustration, he failed to notice that the vents in the room were no longer filtering clean air, but were instead releasing faintly blue vapor into the room. The vapor's tendrils curled in the air like fingers, pushing their way into the room, reaching for Dallas Winston.

000000000

Read and review please!


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five: The Choice

Dallas noticed a sharp scent in the air. He looked around and noticed the blue smoke filling the room. He cussed loudly. They were probably trying to knock him out again so he wouldn't fight back when they landed.

He pulled his hospital gown over his mouth and nose and tried to breathe only through his mouth.

He looked around frantically. It wasn't coming from under the door, which meant there was an opening somewhere in the room.

His gaze swiveled upwards. The vent. Of course.

He had to find a way to block it. Thinking quickly, he tore off his hospital gown and, standing on the chair he had been tied to, pulled the cover off the vent, stuffed the gown in and replaced the cover.

Getting off the chair, he retreated to a corner of the room.

_Smoke rises,_ he reasoned, shivering in his boxers. _Or is that just for fires…either way I should keep as low as possible. _

But it was a long journey, and more than half the room had been filled with the blue substance by the time Dallas had realized what was happening. And so, despite his best efforts, he began to feel drowsy, and it was becoming harder and harder to keep his eyes open.

He couldn't let himself get dragged into anything again. He had to stay conscious, so he could get out and start running as soon as he could.

He sprang up and started pacing around the cramped room, hoping to get his adrenaline going so he wouldn't fall asleep. He threw a few punches too, just for good measure.

Dallas wondered how long they had been traveling. A long time, certainly, considering that Dallas had been knocked out for quite some time.

The whirr of the engines was as steady as ever. He slumped in his corner again and groaned inwardly. His exercise had just made him dizzy, although whether it was because of the smoke or because he was still weak, he didn't know.

000000000

Nagra was watching Dallas via an impromptu security camera set up in the room. The boy was clever.

Not clever enough, however, because regardless of the gown blocking the vent, enough gas was leaking into the room that Dallas would be out cold. It would simply take a bit longer than anticipated.

000000000

Dallas awoke, for the second time in less than a week, to the smell of lemony disinfectant. This time it was accompanied by an incessant beeping noise.

He cursed himself. He had fallen asleep anyway.

He struggled to get up, and saw he was hooked up to an IV and that there was an oxygen tube in his nose.

Roaring in frustration, he began to tear the tubes out, but Balram's voice warned, "I wouldn't."

Dallas's head whipped around. There was Balram, sitting at his bedside. His hands were folded calmly in his lap, and the gentleness of his expression somehow infuriated Dallas.

"What in the actual hell!" Dallas shouted. "You've knocked me out twice, I have no idea where I am, and you still haven't explained to me _why_ it has to be me! _What the hell is going on?"_

Balram sighed tiredly. "To tell you the truth, Mr. Winston, I am not thrilled about this arrangement either. I hadn't bargained on you being this…suicidal."

Dallas glowered. "So walking into the line of police fire wasn't enough of a hint?"

"You were drunk that night. We thought you might reconsider once you woke up and saw you were still alive."

Dallas exhaled heavily and leaned back in his bed. "Well, I've told you multiple times that you should just go ahead and kill me. So what gives?"

"We've invested too much in you already."

Dallas's head snapped up. "What?" he demanded, his voice dangerously soft.

"We've invested too much in you. Finding you, paying the police, arranging for your training. We've invested too much in you to just let you back out now."

Dallas snorted. "Sounds like that's your problem. Should have asked me before you decided to waste your money on sorry white trash like me."

"Sleep on it," Balram suggested. He turned on his heel to leave.

But Dallas had had enough. He wasn't going to be left to "sleep on it" anymore, mainly because when that happened they just knocked him out again. Also, he wasn't going to let Balram leave this time without giving him a proper explanation.

"Oh, no," Dallas said, keeping his voice level. "You're going to tell me what's going on. Right now. Right _now, _do you hear me?"

000000000

Balram suppressed a smile. Even if Dallas didn't want to admit it, he wasn't suicidal. His refusal to take things passively only proved that more.

The boy would need some time to recover from the death of his friend, Balram knew. Which was why he planned to keep Dallas fighting. As long as Dallas kept fighting, he could deal with the pain without brooding about it.

But there was no way he could just tell Dallas he wasn't suicidal. Dallas was bullheaded, and would kill himself out of spite if Balram told him that.

"Listen," Balram said. "We are in India now. Your recovery will take a few more days anyway, and if you're still intent on—"

Dallas roared in frustration and started towards Balram.

Balram didn't flinch. "Mr. Winston," he stated flatly. "Quite frankly, I don't know what to do with you. You refuse to join our cause, yet you expect me to reveal everything about it—a top secret, government-level mission, one so secretive we couldn't even trust it to another Indian national?"

Dallas was undeterred. "How do you expect me to agree to it if you won't even tell me what I'm doing? How do I know you don't want me to go around killing people, huh?"

"Given your escalating track record, you were on that same path anyway, Mr. Winston," Balram said smoothly.

000000000

Dallas closed his mouth, his face burning. No wonder he was their hired gun, if they thought he was that out of control.

Well…come to think of it, wasn't he? He had threatened to kill the gas station owner the night of Johnny's death. At the time he had thought it was an excused to get the police involved, but looking back on the night, if the man hadn't let him go, Dallas probably would have shot him.

His body was suddenly cold at the thought. That he was capable of murder.

Balram was still looking at him. He exhaled through his nostrils. "So this is one of those 'tell you and I have to kill you' things."

Balram nodded slightly.

Dallas almost snorted. He couldn't believe they thought he was that stupid. If they told him their secrets, and he still refused to join, they would kill him. He wasn't falling for that again.

On the other hand, they weren't about to let him go either. And if he was going to be their prisoner anyway, he might as well find out why he was being held hostage.

"Tell me," he said, hardly able to believe what he was saying.

000000000

Balram had seen the almost-smirk that crossed Dallas' face. Of course he had seen through that.

Yes, Dallas Winston was tough, mean and smarter than he let on. And he was perfect for the job. If only there was a way to make him see that.

Balram launched into a brief explanation of the mission. They were going to steal the legendary Koh-I-Noor diamond from the Tower of London and bring it back to India. The diamond had been taken from India as the spoils of war during Queen Victoria's reign, and Nagra wanted it brought back by any means necessary to raise national pride.

Dallas raised an eyebrow at the last part. "Just national pride, huh?" he commented cynically.

Balram gave him a small smile. "Well, there is an election coming up. Nagra _sahib_ is running for prime minister. That's like the president," he added.

"I know what a prime minister is," Dallas said coldly.

"My apologies," Balram murmured. "And I know this has no significance for you. Your national history has nothing to do with the diamond's recovery, nor will Nagra's election affect you all the way in America."

"But?" Dallas prompted.

"But Nagra _sahib_ is a very powerful man. Regardless of whether this mission goes right or not, here is what he can offer you: a new identity. A fresh start. As much money, security, education as you want."

Dallas' face didn't change. Balram pressed on.

"Dallas Winston is dead. You can have any new name you choose, live anywhere you want, be anyone you want. He did the same thing for me. Pulled me out of the lowest rungs of India's class system. He can do the same for you."

000000000

Dallas would be lying if he said his interest wasn't piqued. A new life, one where he wasn't a JD, a good-for-nothing hood. One where people wouldn't judge him for where he came from.

Most of all, a life where no one would have to know he was responsible for Johnny's death. Somehow, at this thought, some of the weight of Dallas' chest lifted. Not a lot, but enough for Dallas to consider saying yes.

He ran a hand through his hair. "I wouldn't have to live in India, would I?" he asked.

Balram shook his head. "No. Nagra _sahib_ can arrange something for you in America as well, if that's what you want."

Dallas felt his fists clenching. They had trapped him, he knew. He was never going to be given a choice anyway, and this was his last chance to pretend he had made the decision himself. He didn't know whether that saved his dignity or stripped it away even more.

Before he could think about it too much, he found himself saying, "I'll do it."

Balram nodded, smiling slightly. "Thank you, Dallas Winston."

000000000

What do you think? Read and review please!


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six: Shooting Lessons

Balram handed Dallas some spare clothing he had brought in a bag. Dallas groaned inwardly at the sight of them. Long, slim khaki trousers, a long-sleeved shirt with a large, starched collar.

_I'll look like a square,_ he thought. _I'll look like a blasted pansy with that collar. _

When they exited the hospital, however, Dallas was surprised to see that a lot of the men were dressed the same way.

The heat washed over him as soon as they stepped outside, and Dallas immediately longed to be back inside the air-conditioned hospital.

It was humid and crowded. Dallas didn't think he had ever seen so many people milling around before.

He was also immediately aware that he stood out like a sore thumb. He was blond and pale, and he felt washed out compared to the brown-skinned and dark-haired people. They noticed he was different, too, staring at him as they passed by.

Dally wasn't totally unused to the attention. People stared at him in Tulsa, too, but it was usually because they were worried he'd try and jump them. They looked at him the way prey can't help but stare at the predator.

Whereas here they stared at him out of curiosity, like he was a zoo animal.

As he and Balram walked through the street, a small child ran up to Dally and swiped his hand across Dally's arm, appearing confused when nothing came off. He scampered back to his mortified mother, still looking at his hand.

"You are a new sight," Balram commented.

"I noticed," Dally said through gritted teeth. He growled at a boy who pointed at him. The boy's eyes grew wide in shock and he stepped back, swallowing hard.

Balram led him to a Rolls Royce and ushered him into the front seat. For a moment, Dally wondered if he would have to drive. But then he realized the steering wheel was on the opposite side.

They drove on the opposite side of the road, too, he noticed as Balram merged into traffic.

"This may sound ignorant," Dally began as they crawled through traffic. "But which city is this?"

"Bombay," Balram replied. "We are going to Nagra _sahib's_ house."

It took over an hour. The car crawled forward at a snail's pace. At least the car was air-conditioned.

Occasionally a beggar came up to the car and knocked on the windows. Balram waved them away dismissively.

"There no such thing as unemployment checks or welfare in this country?" Dallas asked, watching a woman with a baby in her arms going from car to car.

"No," Balram said shortly, and Dally knew better than to push the matter.

Eventually they pulled into a long, gated driveway, and when the doorman pulled open the gates, Dallas was amazed at the stark contrast between the grimy streets and what must have been Nagra's mansion.

Whereas the streets were dusty and filled with people and litter, the driveway was made of some kind of luminescent white stone. In the bright sunlight, it hurt Dallas' eyes to look at it for too long.

Flowering vines hung on the walls, and even from inside the car Dallas could smell the fragrant jasmine. Flowerbeds decorated the front of the house, which looked like it was built from white marble.

_Glory, this ain't a house, it's a palace,_ Dallas thought, craning his neck to look up at the house. It was flat-roofed, and Arabic-looking carvings decorated the doorway.

A tiny woman answered the door. She and Balram spoke briefly in a language Dally couldn't identify but guessed must be Hindi.

He followed Balram inside and immediately felt too grubby to even stand inside the house.

The floor was paved with cool marble, and the foyer contained what looked like a full-scale replication of the David.

Dally slouched and shoved his hands in his pockets the way he used to when he was around Socs. Then he straightened up, reminding himself that he didn't need to fight anyone this time.

More Greek and Roman statues caught Dally's eye as they passed through the house. They descended a long, dark flight of stairs. The coolness told Dally they were underground.

Balram flipped a light switch and Dallas' breath caught in his throat. They had entered a large, state of the art shooting range.

Man-shaped targets lined the back wall. The first two were littered with bullets, but the rest were blank.

"I know you don't know how to shoot," Balram said, pulling a pistol off a rack that held handguns, rifles, and what looked like machine guns as well. Dally's heart skipped. He recognized some of them from the movies—AK-47s, as well as the Beretta rifles a lot of farmers around Tulsa had. He recognized the Glocks, too, because Buck and Tim Shepard had them.

"How do you know?" Dally demanded angrily. Tim had given him lessons once before, and Dally hadn't been half bad at knocking a beer can off a post.

Balram handed him the pistol. "Okay. If you're so good, show me."

He and Dallas put on the ear mufflers and Dally aimed for the bull's eye on the target's heart. He fired.

Balram shook his head. Dallas groaned inwardly. The bullet had landed slightly to the left of the man-shaped outline.

"Don't close your eyes when you pull the trigger. Hold your arm in line with your shoulder."

Dallas brought his arm up. He had been shooting with his elbow crooked, like in the movies. He supposed Paul Newman only did it to look cooler.

_Bang!_

"Again," Balram commanded.

_Bang! _

"Again."

_Bang! _

It finally landed on the target's heart. Dally felt a swoop of victory in his chest.

Balram nodded. "Good. Now," he added. "Again."

_Bang! _

"Again."

000000000

Review please!


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven: Basic Training

(A/N: I am basing my descriptions of India on what the country was like in the sixties, only twenty years after colonialism ended and before Westernization or globalism really came to the country.)

Dallas found he was strong enough for most of the basic training Balram put him through, most of which was conducted on several acres of farmland Nagra had purchased, first to train Balram and now to train Dallas.

Balram acted as Dally's trainer. It was too dangerous to hire an outsider, who might spread the word that Nagra was training a foreigner.

That was the part that Dally found to be the strangest. Being a foreigner. Back in Tulsa, he had never thought about being white. _I guess it never crosses your mind when you're the majority, _he thought.

But now that he was the exotic one, attracting strange looks in the city streets and on the country roads the day they drove out to the farmland, women in jewel-colored saris balancing bushels of firewood on their heads stopping to watch their car until they were out of sight.

He got used to the stares pretty quickly. He had attracted attention in Tulsa, too, especially once it had gotten around that he had been in jail at ten years old.

He loved the food, too. Thank god for that, because there wasn't a scrap of what he'd call American food anywhere. He helped Balram cook their meals, which consisted of fried and spiced vegetables, some sort of Indian tortillas that Balram called _roti, _and rice.

It was delicious, but for the first couple of weeks, Dally could barely keep any of it down. It wasn't until one day when Dallas felt too sick to eat anything but threw up anyway that Balram realized Dally's stomach couldn't handle the water.

"Indian water isn't as sanitized as your filtered American tap water," Balram explained. He began boiling the water before they drank it, and Dallas was never sick again.

Dally wondered if part of his sickness came from the spiciness of the food, or perhaps the incredible heat. Shooting lessons were bearable because they were indoors most of the time, and even when going around the sweltering city, Balram drove an air-conditioned car.

Nagra had a sweet little Corvette in addition to the Rolls Royce.

_If this were Tulsa, even I'd think twice about hot-wiring that, _Dallas had thought when he had seen the car.

"Custom made," Balram had said with a small smile.

Dallas could see that it was. The steering wheel was on the right hand side.

He began to wonder exactly what it was Nagra did. Yes, he knew the man was a politician, but people had careers apart from being politicians. Kennedy had been in the military, Johnson had been a teacher.

Balram had given Dallas a startled look when he had asked what Nagra did. "He's always been a politician. Followed in his father's footsteps."

"Yeah, but what about before that? I mean, the Kennedys are a political family too, but they did something like lawyering or the military before running for office. How about Nagra?"

Balram had shaken his head. "Nagra has always been a politician. Groomed for the job."

"So, what, all this comes from family wealth?" Dally had asked, gesturing vaguely at the house.

"Yes. Partly, anyway," Balram had replied, abruptly walking away before Dallas could question him further.

Dallas figured Nagra was involved in something illegal. Maybe the mafia, if there was one here. If he was, he wondered why Balram was acting so sketchy about it. After all, the politicians were just as corrupt back in America, and no one in Tulsa had seemed too angry about it. They had had other, bigger problems to deal with.

In any case, they were now spending more and more time away from the city, living in a two-room shack on the farmland for a week or more at a time.

There were large, elaborate obstacle courses on the land. Dally wondered if anyone walked by and questioned it, but he soon found out that the land was marked private property, surrounded by barbed wire and labeled a tiger conservatory.

When he saw the signs for that, he began to understand the lengths Nagra had gone to not just to train Dallas but also to keep him a secret. Strangely, this realization didn't make him afraid for his mission, but instead made him feel more secure somehow.

He climbed up and over plywood walls, darted between tires, crawled under stretches of wire, and swam across a small, muddy river. And then running. Endless running, it seemed. Dallas was strong; the obstacles gave him no trouble.

But Balram made him run for hours on end, till sometimes he passed out in the intense heat. He wasn't used to running. He wasn't a track star like Ponyboy.

With a lurch he remembered Ponyboy. And the rest of the gang. And Johnny.

He thought about Johnny every day. He still felt the stab of guilt every time. But these days he felt less guilt and more purpose.

He hated to admit it, but it seemed that Balram had been right. Before, Johnny had been the only good and decent thing in his life. But that wasn't the case anymore. He had a purpose now.

More than that, he was wanted. Nagra and Balram had chosen him, were going to all this trouble, for their mission primarily, yes, but they couldn't carry out that mission without him. They had made that apparent.

And Dallas found that, with his newfound purpose, he wanted to die a little bit less every day. Perhaps the day would come when he no longer looked forward to simply completing the mission, but to living after it as well.

000000000

Review please!


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight: Falling Snow

Dallas caught himself wondering if he would ever see the gang again. Darry, Soda, Two-Bit, Steve, Tim Shepard, Ponyboy. He could mostly take them or leave them, but they were his only friends. And how many times had he slept over at the Curtis' place when his mother threw him out?

He was sure they thought he was dead. It was the only logical conclusion.

They were living full-time at the training grounds. Dallas had gotten to the point that he could finish the entire eleven-mile course in an hour and a half.

It helped that he was more or less fearless. He had no qualms about jumping off the twenty-foot platform into the straw-filled ditch below, or about swimming through the river that ran through the grounds.

One day, though, he dove into the river, only to claw his way to the surface, flailing his arms and gasping for breath.

Balram had somehow filled the entire stretch of the river with gigantic chunks of ice. They cooled the river to a freezing temperature, causing Dallas to yelp and for his teeth to chatter while he tried to swear.

"Keep going," Balram commanded from the makeshift bridge. "Keep your head above the water until your body adjusts, but don't stop."

Dally wondered how the hell Balram had managed this. How had he even managed to get ice all the way out here?

His body was compulsively sucking in air, wracked with the shock of the sudden cold. His chest felt tight, like his heart was going to stop at any second.

"Keep going," Balram yelled again.

_I'm trying!_ Dally felt like yelling back. _You try and swim through this!_ He tried to keep going, but he couldn't bear to dip into the water again. He tread water, his arms wrapped around his torso.

"Move!" Balram barked.

Fed up, Dally mustered his energy and kicked forward. But instead of heading for the opposite shore, he swam towards the bridge. The flimsy, wooden-slats-tied-with-rope bridge.

Before Balram could register what was happening, Dally had burst out of the water like a shark after its prey and had rammed his full weight into the slats Balram was standing on, causing the tall Indian to lose his balance and topple, arms flailing, into the water.

He shouted as the water chilled him to the bone, and Dally responded with a roar of laughter.

_Worth it,_ Dally thought, seeing the look on Balram's face and splashing to the shore before Balram could exact his revenge.

Before Balram knew what was happening, Dally was out of the water and was scrambling onto the banks, droplets wicking off his fair skin as he loped away, still laughing.

000000000

Balram was flabbergasted. Mischief? Dallas Winston was many things, but picaresque? He never would have imagined.

He was incredibly pleased with Dallas' progress. In just a few short weeks, he had gone from a boy on the verge of suicide to a boy with the zest of life back in him.

He had never been much concerned about Dallas' physical training. It was the emotional recovery that had been his main goal.

Oh, the training was necessary, of course, but Dallas had mastered shooting, climbing, swimming and long-distance running in less than six weeks. The boy was a natural.

As for his psychological recovery, he was right on schedule. Maybe even a little bit ahead of it.

He was doing wonderfully, it was true, but Balram was careful not to grow lax. He never failed to crush the tablets—two each evening for a total of 50 mg—and add them to Dallas' lentil soup. The spiciness masked the bitter taste of the pills, and they were clearly working.

Balram hadn't believed they would at first. He had been skeptical when Nagra's personal physician had presented him with them—SSRIs, they were called, and they were supposed to cure depression.

He hadn't believed it at first. How could grief be cured as easily as a headache or a fever? It seemed impossible.

And yet, here was the evidence. He never would have expected it. Modern technology was sometimes overwhelming to him, a boy who had never seen a real car until he was ten years old.

That night, Dallas almost caught him.

Balram was about to tip the crushed tablets, which turned into fine, sparkling white powder, like cocaine, into the soup when Dallas poked his head in with a frown. "What's taking so long?" he demanded.

"Just bringing it out," Balram said, quickly closing his hand. "Have you boiled the water?"

"Oh yeah," Dally said. He grabbed the pot and headed outside. Balram heard him running towards the creek.

That had been a close one. He tilted his hand, letting the crystals fall gently into the soup. They looked like what he imagined falling snow must look like. He had never seen snow before. Living in Tulsa, he wondered if Dallas had either.

000000000

Review please! So now I guess you know why Dallas could get over Johnny so fast…


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine: Code

Dallas scratched his chin. He hadn't shaved in several days and a blond scruff was growing in.

It was nothing compared to what Balram could grow. On one of their trips to the countryside, the normally clean-shaven Balram had forgotten his razor, and over the course of three days had sprouted an impressive mustache and beard. It drove Balram so crazy that he had cut their trip short.

Balram didn't say anything about Dallas' beard, though, except to comment that it was so blond that from a distance it was almost invisible.

It had been three months since Dallas had first arrived in India. His skin had burned at first in the harsh sun, but the painful redness had eventually turned to a shade that resembled Johnny's.

_Hey, Johnny,_ Dallas thought, _we're brothers!_

Balram cut both his and Dallas' hair regularly now, cropping it into military-style crew cuts with a knife like a farmer reaping wheat with a scythe.

The months of training had changed Dallas' physique, making him leaner and stronger, like a snake. He was much stronger than he had been before. If he had had a mirror larger than the small circular one Balram had given him, he would have spent hours flexing in front of it, feeling like Paul Newman.

His meager diet was surely part of it, too. If there were hamburgers, milkshakes, and Cokes in India, Dallas knew nothing about them. He ate the light vegetarian food that Balram cooked. It was delicious, but the lack of meat still bothered him somewhat.

They were making the three-hour drive back to Mumbai from the farmlands. Dallas had gotten used to the bumpy and uneven roads, and he could doze on the long rides now.

"This is the last time we will come here," he heard Balram say.

Dallas wondered if he was dreaming. He opened his eyes fully and gaped at Balram. "The last time? Why?"

"Your training is done," Balram said simply. "It is time to start talking about the plan. The real plan."

Dallas felt as though he had been hit with a sack of bricks. The plan. He had almost forgotten completely about it in the months of training, the only change in routine when Balram decided to up the ante.

"Okay," Dallas said slowly. "So…what is the plan?"

"When we get back to Mumbai, we will discuss it with Nagra _sahib,"_ Balram replied patiently.

Dallas fell silent. He wondered how Balram could always be so calm, so…reserved. It made him an excellent teacher because he never snapped or shouted when Dallas couldn't get the hang of something, but it also made Dallas wary.

Maybe Balram was like Darry. Like a volcano—strong and silent, but if you provoked him just enough, you would regret the ensuing explosion.

000000000

"We will fly to London on the first of April," Balram explained, placing the plane tickets on the table.

Nagra nodded in approval. "Good. And the hotel?"

"I have made arrangements for the Covent Garden for Dallas, and for a student hostel in Kensington for me."

Dallas thought he must have heard wrong. "But…but how is anyone going to believe _you're_ a student?" he inquired, looking the enormous Balram up and down.

"I am a man from India. Many poor immigrants stay wherever they can while looking for proper work and housing," Balram explained.

"Won't that make it easier for people to identify you once we, you know, steal the crown?" Dallas put on a British falsetto. "'Oh, Mr. Policeman, I saw him at the student hostel, he was so tall, dark and handsome!'"

Balram looked displeased. Nagra chuckled and murmured, _"Yeh dava use khushi kara diya, nahin?"_

"_Ji, sahib,"_ Balram said quietly. He cleared his throat and continued, ignoring Dallas' quizzical look. "I won't be memorable. Just another Indian face in the crowd. Just as you will merely be another American tourist in the crowd. A college student on holiday."

"Yeah, okay," Dallas said sourly. It was his turn to be displeased now. Despite being here for months, he didn't know a word of Hindi. Neither Nagra nor Balram seemed to want to teach him. Not that he really needed to use it, since the only people he talked to—Balram and Nagra—spoke English.

He had never really thought of language as a weapon—a code to keep secrets from other people while they were in the same room as you were.

He listened without saying another word while Balram explained. Balram would take a janitorial job at the Tower of London. Dallas would visit there as a tourist twice, once to stake out the location and once to steal the crown, both times in disguise.

They would complete the operation when Balram had the night shift. Dallas would hide somewhere in the Tower until well after closing hours.

"And after that…well, I've looked at the blueprints for the Tower," Balram said, wilting a bit under Nagra's piercing gaze. "I've mapped an escape route. But I suspect these are not the most up-to-date blueprints. And that's where Dallas' stakeouts will come in."

"I see," Nagra said slowly. "Well done, Balram. Please keep me updated on anything that comes up."

"Yes sir. Thank you sir," Balram said rapidly as Nagra stood with some difficulty and left the room.

"I think we should—" Balram began, turning to Dallas. But Dallas had gotten up and left as well.

000000000

Translation of the Hindi:

Nagra: "That medicine made him happy, didn't it?"

Balram: "Yes, sir."

Read and review, please!


End file.
